


The President's Curse

by jammayei



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bad Ending, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mentioned Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Mentioned Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Minor Character(s), Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit Friendship, Toby Smith | Tubbo Misses TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot and TommyInnit are Siblings, god how do you tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jammayei/pseuds/jammayei
Summary: Wilbur Soot. The founding father of the nation. Building his ideals and morals, and bringing them to life in what he promised would be a safe haven. The nation was just a pretty poisoned apple. And he took a bite, spiraling into his desperation for power and power, until his mind was unwoven and he clung onto the need to bring everything down with him. Alone.JSchlatt. The second, rightfully voted in president. His words and eyes seemed full of power and control, slippery charisma and a full force of strength in his voice. All bark, no bite. Drinking and drinking and pushing people towards the edge until he was surrounded by pointed edges and only had a drink that spilled on his shirt and chin. Alone.Tubbo Smith. 16 years old at the beginning of his term. Forced onto a position of power at a too young age. Truly, truly alone. Alone, alone, and alone.This is the President's Curse.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	1. my unfinished symphony

**Author's Note:**

> please make sure to read tags for this series. not all the tags are in the first chapter, but they will be throughout the two other chapters.

_I heard there was a special place,_

A pretty tune. A song. Beautiful, chimes ringing in the air gently as sunlight sat down on his skin warmly against marble and glass and wood and stone. It was so cleanly beautiful that they could cry. He was sitting, bathing in the soft warmth as the music fell in his ears. Elegant melodies with notes that were perfect. In his eyes. 

_Where men could go and emancipate,_

But those perfect notes were slightly downwards. Slightly off put. They didn’t quite fulfill their job, dancing around. Pretending. They were just right for him. His grin widened slightly, tears dripping slowly down his cheeks into puddles. 

_The brutality and the tyranny of their rulers_ _,_

It’s so funny, because of how ironic it’s all become. L’Manberg was a nation built on the ideals and need of freedom and peace. His words were of soft honey and wind and beautiful, fragile glass. And they all ate it up like animals. Freedom and peace. He- they- shed blood and limbs for the ideal of freedom, and in doing so, they trapped themself in. 

And yet, as they ran and ran and ran from the corruption; they created the most destructive poison of power and fear. Managing to build a curse that plagues the minds of leaders. They keep burning, building, burning and building. 

_Well, this place is real, you needn't fret,_

The tall man looked out at the tall walls, content in the scratchy grass underneath his feet with his young brother beside him. Smells of freedom and lovely whispers of safety drifted between the two. The three. The two brothers and the nation. The nation. A new one. A promise. A wish. An expectation. But they were fucked from the beginning. He wiped his nose with his hand and kept walking.

_With_ _Wilbur, Tommy, Tubbo,_ _fuck Eret_ _,_

And so they kept building, the two brothers. A fresh atmosphere and the wood and the bakery. The other one laughed, sitting down and pretty melting sunsets with a powerful item. They didn’t realize quite the potential. Naive. And young.

But they continued, with brothers by their sides and arms linking with tunes at their lips. The younger smiled at his best friend and promised the other they’d bring the world down with his own fire and be the hero of the light. 

The president smiled against the boldness and the oppression and the raging storms that were against him and the nation of freedom. Against everything. And they were here. His nation. He stood, surrounded by the sweet sound of freedom and quiet laughs of comrades and family. The man felt warmth against his eyelids as he closed them.

_It's a very big and not blown up L'Manberg_

Wilbur opened them and saw L’manberg blown up. Look around, leader, as it stretches hundreds of feet across. Gaps and holes punching at the ground and screaming in his ears. There was so much screaming. Pounding noises of bombs. Where was he. What happened. Where did L’Manberg go. Where did the slightly broken sounds of freedom go. 

Lazily gazing at the fields, he saw them choking. They were choking on the deep rooted corruption and poison that clogged at their throats and filled their eyes and dripped down their noses. Wilbur looked down to see it dripping everywhere on his shirt. How bad had it been? How long and bad had it been before he noticed? It kept dripping. 

The hatred and self pity and the power hungry swirling mess of self destructiveness poured down from his face. His face. Wilbur tiredly touched it, and felt small cracks at the edges as the loathing of all forms devoured him completely. … It had devoured him for months. Years. Infinity. How long. It had always been there. But now the fuse was burning, hot and hissing so loudly that everyone could hear. It felt oddly painful, and he screamed as if he hadn’t been screaming for years. Boom.

_My L'Manberg_

A breath came out of the Leader’s lips. Then a shout. A shout to the screaming skies and the crater underneath their feet. To the void where nothing was. Look at his song, his perfect, perfect, song. This was his song. Unsettling and off tune to everyone’s ears but perfect to his eyes and lips and fingertips. 

It was his song.

_My L'Manberg_

My. Song. 

_My L'Manberg_

“Do you promise, father. That the next time I open my eyes, I won’t see destruction and blood again. Do you promise to relieve me of this never-ending pain.” He said, not opening his mouth once.

His father answered yes with a stab to his heart. And Wilbur closed his eyes. 

_My L'Manberg_

He opened his eyes, and it was no longer his L’Manberg. 

Who was he. No. Who is L'Manberg? 

_For freedom and for liberty,_

_Our nation sought to build on these,_

_A victory for all under democracy,_

_Well, the darkness came and then it went,_

_We built a home and watched it sink,_

_And from the rubble there emerged L'Manberg_

_My L'Manberg_

_My L'Manberg_

_My L'Manberg_

_My L'Manberg_

  
  



	2. the dead man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second president. JSchlatt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember to look at tags. lots of drinking in this chapter.

When he looked down to see forever expanding, blinding swirls move outwards, away from his feet. He knew where he was. The man gripped his head, slowly closing his eyes. It hurt. He scanned the area, anyway. A tune was playing, in the empty darkness. Swirls, swirls and swirls… Schlatt didn’t look at the eye bleeding brightness of the never ending waves. 

Instead he kept walking towards the song, played eloquently but strong. It was a beauty in the jagged hell. It ticked the horned man off. 

_ “My L’Maanburg… My L’Manberg..”  _

“You’re exiled.” The man stated, a sharpness in his voice. He stood over the former ruler who had sat with a guitar in his hand and uniform neatly done. Melting. 

The figure of the former,  _ exiled, _ ruler 

The man continued to strum for a few seconds, before turning to look at Schlatt. The taller man’s eyes drooped, melting, tears flowing down his face constantly. But he did not look sad. He licked his dry, cracked lips before whispering out words that echoed. 

_ “As long as L’Manberg lives, I’ll never die. I am engrained here until it burns.”  _ Wilbur turned his head slightly, a sadistic grin growing on his face. Hatred dripped from the goat’s eyes. Schlatt scoffed, a hand on his side as he looked down on the transparent leader. 

“You’re not even real.” 

_ “Then why am I here.”  _

Schlatt narrowed his eyes, rage building up. “I’ll kill you. I swear to God, Wilbur, I’ll kill you.” 

The man below him, sitting down, below HIM, only continued to smile. He only said, _ “I’m not Wilbur,”  _ before continuing to play. Schlatt watched, moments passing. Moments passing.

**\--**

Schlatt took another swig from the glass bottle, lips red and stinging from the taste. He growled against the cool material, and wiped his mouth. How the hell did it come to this. There were loud sounds of metal clashing against each other, distant fireworks that fizzled out. God, his head fucking hurt. 

The president was slumped over in the half wrecked old stupid van that the former president had made to cook up drugs. That guy was nuts from the beginning, who let him run a country? But it didn’t particularly matter, every president seems to be a nutcase in their eyes, Schlatt thought pitifully. 

Sounds of screaming and blood splattering became hollow noise in his ears as he stared down at the almost empty glass bottle, the never-ending swirls slowly, slowly, coming back and surrounding everything around him like a vicious snake ready to tear him apart; he felt it all coming back, rushing faster and faster and-

“What are you doing in my van, Schlatt.” 

He looked up into the eyes of…. Ah. Well, shit. 

Schlatt let out a breath, the smell of alcohol and some sort of other substance stitched in. It seems like he’d run out of time to kill Wilbur Soot.

**\--**

The intoxication of strong, rich victory and tasteful kisses of power was a deal with the devil. The feelings were a high that would eventually disappear and leave someone with absolute hollowness and weakness. That is why they try to grasp at the dripping waters of power, power, power to stay in control. 

Schlatt had done so well, though. Threads and infinite connections and a voice like charged electricity and demanding tones stamped in every word. The presidents of the broken, broken nation seemed to always be so charismatic. He rode on the crushing power he had and crashed the waves, overwhelming everyone. There was no escape and no room to hide the panic that settled into people’s hearts when hearing his footsteps. 

He got too close to the sun. 

The sun was bright and warm and absolutely burning. It burnt his skin away and then Schlatt got swallowed by the darkness in which he swam with alcohol and loneliness. He thought he had it, he thought he had the people wrapped around where he needed them to be. Because Schlatt was a businessman and knew the tangling mess that could become when people bite off more than they can chew and end up choking on their ambition and hatred. 

So when he ended up in the empty, sluggish landscape filtered and cracked with his own greed, he drank. And drank, and drank. There was no more power left for him to seize at and grab with his hands and it all slipped away like small grains of sand that refused to stay. An hourglass where time was ticking and dripping and leaving. 

He drank. 

And drank. 

And drank. 

Because Tubbo was a spy, and left him, and Quakcity left him too and then Fundy even though all his father did was treat him like nothing, and then they all left and stopped believing and left left left left left left. They all left. 

Washed up in the stench and strength of alcohol, because the drink was made of swirls that made him forget and it was all he was attracted to. L’Manberg had so much potential and it was a playground, a map of power that he took a stab at. The lust and intensity of what someone could do in L’Manberg. It trapped him. Caged him in, until the job did itself and he destroyed himself and everyone in the process. He wondered what kind of curse this was. 

L'Manberg was all kinds of things. A weapon, a tool, a land where ideas and independence and freedom and peace could be cultivated and developed. Strong words of poetry and fine sculptures and skies expanding. But it was mostly a spawn and giant mass of destructive power that was a corner carved out in the DreamSMP. Something so powerful and alluring that reeked of potential and power. 

It was a trap that spilled with corruption and corruption and misery. Untouchable in many ways and obstacles full of broken hearts. 

A curse.

_ “Have you killed me? You promised to, after all.”  _

“Shut the fuck up Wilbur,” Schlatt snarled, his voice slow and raspy. The bottle was at his lips as the voice laughed, a gentle free sound that was harsh with the wind. 

_ “Like I said, I’m not Wilbur. You couldn’t kill me.”  _ The murky, melting image of the tall man in the dark blue war uniform elegantly paced around the broken van, smirking. 

Schlatt let out a loud breath, relaxing his body against the counter, slightly shrinking. “I guess you’re right. I couldn’t kill you, Wilbur did. He killed and strangled you, himself. And now you’re going down with me.” 

The man before him didn’t face him, a smile still plastered on his face. A sadness to his touch because the horned man was right. In a way. 

_ “Maybe. But I’ll still live in some of them. Tommy, I think.”  _ The man closed his eyes.  _ “I’ll be at peace, hopefully. A good memory, a foundation.”  _

The president scoffed. There was silence. Only noises of destruction and war that Schlatt could barely hear. Instead there was only him and the drink that he used to numb the failure. Because no matter what the rebellion did to him, he was dead. JSchlatt had died a while ago. 

_ “Till we meet again.”  _

“Who are you kidding. We’re both fucking dead.”

And he was right. Because that day, JSchlatt and L'Manberg died. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally done with schlatt's chapter. tubbo's chapter will be published very soon, just need to do final touches. it was very difficult to get this one done, because his character doesn't interest me as much as wilbur's or tubbo's. very good antagonist/villain though.


	3. he did not cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The third, final, President. Tubbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of darker themes in this one. 
> 
> was written and finished before the second doomsday of L'Manberg, so no spoilers for that in this chapter.

Tommy looked into the eyes of the other boy for a second longer, and turned his back and left. 

And the other boy simply watched as he left. He’s gone He’s gone He’s gone He’s gone. 

  
  
  
  


Tubbo was 16 years old when he was put as president of a crater. Of an empty promise and an out of tune song that the old man blew up. Why were they all looking at him, as if he would be able to fix it all. Why was he president, why was he expected to rule this nation, why was he up there giving a- Tubbo started rebuilding. 

What else was he supposed to do? He kept building and the new nation was built on the ideals of peace. Because the 16 year old had seen so many wars and seen so much blood and had heard the sizzling cracker noises of bursting color in his ears and on his chest one too many times. So peace, it was. 

No armor, no fireworks, no TNT. 

And they were fine. 

They were not fine. Because suddenly  _ he _ was there, and suddenly their fragile nation built on peace and dark wood and stilts was threatened to be held down by obsidian skies and guards that would snap their necks.

L’Manberg was so fragile, a fresh new born baby that Tubbo was responsible for. 

And so when Tubbo had to exile his best friend, he knew it was the best, logical decision possible. Because the little small, new baby and it’s soft skin was being threatened to be ripped apart by another war. 

The previous presidents had been power hungry and corrupt, the taste of power so irresistible that they became fucked. They always drank and drank out of bottles of corruption and poison. 

For the first time, a president had made a deep, selfless choice for the pure safety of others. 

Because as it turns out, Tommy had not only been Tubbo’s best friend, he had been Tubbo’s only friend. 

As Tubbo turned around to his cabinet that never listened to him, never respected him, he realized that they were ready to sink their teeth in and snarl and burn. Burn, burn, burn, burn. 

But Tubbo was president. 

Tubbo was president. 

He did not cry.

**\---**

The 16 year old boy, almost 17, threw himself into projects. Nothing was wrong. Threw himself into his work, the farm and the paperwork and the lies and the cold, cut stone steps of his nation, the diamond axes and the tables full of scattered bloody flowers. 

Tubbo was president. 

Sometimes he’d slumber and see flashes of dark horns and malicious laughs that screech at his ears. He’d close his eyes and remember the absolute fear that would tighten and clamp at his chest at the memory of his glare. HeknewHeknewHeknewHeknew and then he’d wake up and remember that Schlatt was dead. 

Schlatt was dead and alive. So unbearably alive because he haunted Tubbo’s nights and would not leave or die or die or die. 

Schlatt was alive. 

And when  _ they _ spat at his face calling him Schlatt, he became even more alive. He became alive as he clawed at the boy’s shoulders and face and he couldn’t say a word of complaint.

Tubbo did not sleep. 

Tubbo was president. 

So it did not matter. 

He walked down the path, and looked at the portraits of the presidents. Wilbur Soot. JSchlatt. 

The ‘President’s Curse’, they’d whisper behind his back as if he couldn’t hear their sharp remarks. 

As if he couldn’t hear their insults, as if he couldn’t hear their glares and rolling of eyes. As if he couldn’t hear how they screamed and SCREAMED AND SCREAMED over his words, over his power. Over him.

The only one who had ever told him he was doing a good job was the lost remnants of an insane man, and even he had lost all faith in the young boy. 

So Tubbo stared at the framed, portraits laced with failure and despair, and forced a smile as not a single tear came out. 

He really, really was the worst president. 

**\---**

The president would look around at everyone in a daze, not realizing that he had been swept up so easily into the mess and violence and blood until the mission was already half over and they were in their wooden boats with their prisoner behind him.

Cold, cold waters underneath and swirling pools of loneliness. Jagged sheets of snow started appearing above, and the winds continued to relentlessly crash into their faces and ocean. This was the Arctic. 

The president shivered, his fingers feeling dead. He felt dead. Why was he doing this? Tubbo ignored it, pushing down the feeling that he had, once again, lost his voice.

And instead, cracked a joke. A small conversation with the man who murdered him. 

“Rate me five stars, please.” 

The other laughed. Tubbo smiled a little more, trying to ease the coldness of the water and the wind and the arctic. 

But the others silenced his laughter, his attempt. A softness, a small light that he thought he could keep did not have permission to stay or grow. There was no room for that, they said. 

Because Tubbo was the president. 

And so when Techno disappeared in a flash of loud colors and blinding lights and debris, Tubbo pursed his lips only. Because of course the Technoblade had managed to not die in an execution that was supposed to be the inescapable taste of death. 

And when Quackity returned with smeared blood at his teeth and fiery, explosive eyes declaring that he’d take down the enemies, Tubbo agreed. 

The ghosts of the former presidents, an alcoholic drunkard dictator and a man who decided to bring down everything with him, whispered at his shoulders. At his ears and skin. The alcoholic reminded him of the fears that the 16 year old boy would become exactly like the man who would drink danger and power and cut his lips on bottle caps. 

The man with insanity and desperation tied into his veins reminded him that he was a yes man. 

What a destructive role. 

Tubbo agreed. 

Another festival. 

  
  


The compass was cold and dead on his hip, as Tubbo finally left the constricting walls of L’Manberg that existed only for him. Even if it would only be for a moment. Tubbo decided that there was no point in fearing that Dream wouldn’t allow him to see his only friend. He would see Tommy. And perhaps, he could apologize. It seemed as if L’Manberg had died because there was no Tommy. Or maybe that was just what Tubbo felt. 

Tubbo skipped down the path, a somewhat small, but genuine smile on his face. He hadn’t been this excited in…

…

Tubbo continued running. 

Tubbo ran, and ran down the rocky path in the hot, sticky realm with barely constructed bridges and loose ties and loose relationships. The hissing death underneath him had been so close to devouring his best friend and he had no idea as he ran. 

Tubbo ran. 

And ran. 

And saw it. 

When he touched the pillar, tracing his fingers lightly with a confused pout. Where was Tommy. 

When the 16 year old’s eyes widened, and his gaze rose to the tip of the tower, Tubbo landed on his knees. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe. There was a strained glass in his chest that exploded and shattered right then and there, and it was in his eyes and his face and his heart and. He’s gone. 

Tommy is gone. 

Tubbo felt a scream rise in his throat, and all that came out was a soft, weak sound that barely escaped his throat. 

He felt himself double over as darkness overwhelmed his vision. Was he dying? No, he wasn’t. He knew that at least.

Because God was cruel. God was so cruel, because now Tubbo was alone. And it was all his fault. 

He did not cry. 

**\--**

Tubbo woke up. 

His eyes scanned the area, and then did not bother looking up at the tower as he left. 

**\--**

Tubbo was president. 

And for that, he was fine. 

Tubbo was president, so he continued to work. Continued to build, and build. Because what else. What else was he supposed to do. No one could notice, because he was president and he was the same. 

He was a 16 year old boy, with only a worn out picture of  _ him _ left. It was clearly old, and not even a good picture of his only friend: zoomed in weirdly and pulling an ugly face. 

Tubbo did not allow himself to cry, but the raging storm that screamed in his mind could only be muted and bottled up so much. 

Tubbo stopped walking momentarily. Ahh.. Right. A funeral was needed. 

He continued walking. 

Because at the end of the day, Tubbo still had to wake up in ruffled blankets with tired eyes and would still have to get up and be the president. So he would. 

He got up and stretched, brushing his fingers through his hair and smiling as he approached the tall man. The tall man was one of his only friends. How bitter, that everyone who he grew up with was now dead. Gone or dead. Same thing. 

The young boy smiled to himself. Time to keep moving. 

But before he knew it, a bit spilled in front of the taller, half enderman. The careful, strong bottle that Tubbo kept shut and locked spilled over, ever so slightly. The burning, hissing liquid dripped from the opening and onto the ruffled carpet. Before he knew it, Tubbo told the tall friend what everyone thought. 

That Tubbo was the worst president. 

And before he knew it, more words that were drenched in misery came spilling from his lips and the softness in his voice started mixing with the sorrow, sorrow sorrow and sorrow. Tubbo thought that, maybe. Maybe he could let some of it out. 

That bottle had kept in too much and it was okay, maybe. Take some of it out. There seemed to always be more to contain, anyway. Did he earn or deserve that. Probably not. 

But he never cried. 

**\--**

He’s alive. 

He’s alive and he hates you. 

Tubbo was so certain he was hallucinating. His best friend, his only friend, stood across from him. Well and alive. The wooden path underneath them felt worn down and broken as the war criminal stepped between the two, his pig mask hiding any sort of expression. A crossbow in hands. What was this feeling. He couldn’t say anything, despite the scream building up ever since he saw the tower. 

He couldn't find any words to say, and the quiet whisper of “how” had barely escaped. It was more of a gasp, a crack in his throat. 

Almost no one heard him, heard his voice. As always, of course. But Tommy had heard him. As always, of course. 

The two stared at each other. One compass stowed deep away and the other accidentally blown to shreds. One boy forced into the home and the other forced away. They were seperated, again.

Tubbo wanted to do a million things. Scream. Cry. Run over and touch his friend’s face or hands or fingers to check. To check if he was really alive. Yell. Anything. 

But all he did was stand there, frozen in his thoughts and disbelief as a ghost (?) stood all the way across the world with a rod and leash and a blazing look in his eyes. 

Tubbo was president. 

A sudden dull, void settled over him. Of course. He was president. And even though the tied up, kidnapped man wasn’t a citizen, Tubbo was president. He handed over the strong, stiff netherite tools, the weapon over to Technoblade and the other was released. Because he was president. 

And because Tommy hated him. 

So Tubbo watched, staring at his only friend. No, not his friend anymore. He watched the blond run away on the dry, dark grass. He became blurrier and blurrier in the distance, until the figure stopped for a moment. 

The two friends stared at each other, and through their broken hearts and broken minds, they truly believed that the other hated them. And that was the last snap of strings. 

Tommy looked into the eyes of the other boy for a second longer, and turned his back and left. And the other boy simply watched as he left. He’s gone He’s gone He’s gone He’s gone. 

He did not cry. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally done. had a lot of fun with this one, tubbo is one of my favorite characters.

**Author's Note:**

> hi, this is my first fic i've posted on ao3, please be nice. tagging this was a pain in the ass. i've already completed the third so i'll be writing the second and then posting it all. i doubt anyone will see this but it was a nice exercise of getting used to posting stuff on here.


End file.
